


Shadows Steal The Sun

by dazedrose, dedougal



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Teen Wolf Reverse Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 07:24:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1156758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazedrose/pseuds/dazedrose, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dedougal/pseuds/dedougal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is always cold now. The band round his heart is made of ice and is slowly and steadily extinguishing his spark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows Steal The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Round 2 of the Teen Wolf Reverse Bang. I claimed art by DazedRose and you have to go to [the masterpost](http://dazedrose.livejournal.com/12557.html) and leave all the praise. Now. Okay. Also, thanks to 1001cranes for the emergency BritPick!
> 
> There's also an awesome fanmix which influenced the writing of this fic so much. I've been dying to play with what the darkness around Stiles' heart would do to him. I'm loving what the show's doing (my ultimate nightmare) but this is very much my take.

Stiles is wearing two hoodies, one on top of the other. Derek knows it isn’t unusual for Stiles to wear a hoodie. In fact, Derek swears that Stiles wears hoodies just so he can chew on the strings that dangle from the hood, feeding his oral fixation. It’s a step up from chewing his nails to the quick or stripping off the skin from his lips so Derek always grudgingly ignores it. He’s started knocking Stiles’ hand away, though, just like his dad used to do with Cora. But Stiles is wearing two when Derek sees him, quite deliberately too.

It’s the middle of the day on the twelfth of July and the sun is baking the sidewalk. Derek can’t quite see through the heat haze rising over the intersection without squinting and he knows it’s warm for all that werewolves don’t tend to feel the heat just as they don’t feel the cold.

Stiles is obviously cold, despite the fact that everyone around him is dressed in as skimpy clothing as they can get away with and not incur a public indeceny warning. He’s got one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of what smells like tea and he’s chewing on one of the strings from the topmost hoodie.

Derek’s wearing flip flops and is wondering if he can get away with dumping his jeans for board shorts without being mocked. Stiles looks like he’s preparing to take on the Antarctic Expedition. And Derek wonders why the hell he hadn’t noticed anything was wrong until now.  
Derek’s drink is sweating in his hand. He should get back into the nice air conditioned interior of his car. But instead he’s caught, watching Stiles. Stiles doesn’t know he’s there – that much is obvious. In fact, Stiles is actually fairly successfully flirting with two girls who are staring up at him with what looks like hearts in their eyes. Derek ignores the weird flopping sensation in his belly as he watches one of the girls run her hand over Stiles’ forearm, the other playing coyly with her hair.

Derek has to bite down on the urge to stalk across the street (fuck the traffic) and tear her aware. He closes his mouth, hiding his teeth which he’d been moments from baring them in a growl. He takes one more look at the group – the girls smiling and Stiles smirking, an expression that would have been at home on Jackson’s face. He looks like an asshole.

Derek knows Stiles is, essentially, an asshole. He’s an asshole too – all the adage of takes one to know one is true – but this takes a step beyond that.

Stiles isn’t exactly smooth – he’s not got enough maturity for that, perhaps. He’s still growing into the ridiculous width of his shoulders. But he isn’t flailing around, he isn’t too eager, not like the Stiles Derek is used to seeing around Lydia - and around himself, a little. Derek watches as Stiles walks away, leaving the girls giggling and talking behind their hands. Stiles doesn’t wave, doesn’t look back. Instead he hunches inside his double layer of hoodies and climbs into the jeep.

Derek hears Stiles blow on his hands, hears him groan as he sips the coffee and hears him mutter “Hot!” under his breath before he drives off. Derek can also smell the ancient heating system in the jeep working at full blast. He squints at the sun from behind his sunglasses and takes a sip of his soda. Then he drives to Scott’s.

 

It’s interesting to see Scott now, Derek thinks, as he parks and walks towards the porch. Scott was sitting reading on it, enjoying the sunshine, basking almost. He was alone, which is unusual – Derek is so accustomed to seeing Scott surrounding by his pack, by Stiles. He’s also tempted to make a comment about the fact Scott is reading but he knows that Scott needs to keep up with his school work, especially now his dad has left town. There’s also the prospect of Senior Year looming.

“Hey,” Derek throws out. He knows Scott can see him, has been aware of him since he probably turned off the highway. Sometimes Derek misses the extension of his senses that had come with the Alpha powers but he knows he sleeps better at night, no longer woken by the tramp of footsteps along alleys miles away. 

Scott is still a bit of a brat, taking his time folding down the corner of his page and setting the book down. “Derek.”

Derek nods, opening his mouth, swaying back and forward on his heels. He closes his mouth. He’s got absolutely no idea of where to begin.

Scott sighs. “Have a seat. Want a drink? I’ve got-“ Scott holds up an empty soda can then looks behind him into the house. “There’s a tap?” he suggests, off balance.

Derek slumps gratefully onto the steps, watching the rest of the street. No one else is out and about, although he can hear people from behind the houses, kids playing in a yard in the next street over. There’s the lazy sound of a lawnmower in the distance and the hum of crickets. “I think there’s a problem.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott mutters. “You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“We’re not exactly…buddies.” Derek can feel his mouth twist on the word. “Not friends.”

“We’re not brothers, yeah. But we’re not enemies. Adversaries, foes or opponents.” Scott sounds pleased at the recitation of the list. 

Derek nods. If he was a weaker man, he might even be offering a fist to bump. Ironically. “SAT prep? How’d it going?” Scott shrugs but Derek can tell that he’s pleased with himself. “You getting any help with that?”

“Isaac. Stiles said he’d help but he’s not been around.” Scott is quieter at that, less certain. “That’s-“

“Yeah. I’m here to talk about Stiles.” Derek watches Scott work through his feelings. The stages are clear – first he frowns, angry; then he’s a little more pensive and resigned, and then Scott squares his jaw, determined. Derek is just happy that Scott didn’t get stuck on angry like he used to. “There’s something wrong.”

“I know,” Scott says. “But I don’t know what.”

 

Derek doesn’t know what it means that he can sit on Scott’s mother’s sofa, take a soda and talk about his day with Melissa. He’s been searching for a job, despite the shitty economy and his lack of formal qualifications. The people at a lot of the stores he’s stuck applications in to seem to be suspicious of him too. Derek hadn’t taken kindly to Isaac’s suggestion that he look into stripping.

Melissa listens to his worries while Scott heads over to see Stiles, moving up their standing Call of Duty date by a few hours. She’s sympathetic, nodding, before offering to take his details into the hospital. They’ve lost a lot of staff over the past year – normal circumstances as well as werewolf related shenanigans – but Derek doesn’t feel that hopeful. He could manage some kind of porter job, though. And he wouldn’t mind the awkward shifts and he smiles, genuine, before offering his thanks. Melissa is a little taken aback, but she pats his leg before handing him the remote and leaving him in peace.

Derek doesn’t switch on the TV. He waits.

 

Stiles clocked Derek earlier. He could see his stupid car and his stupid face across the street and he would have gone and said something but these girls had seemed actually interested in and Stiles was not going to turn away from that. In the past, Derek would have annoyed him, or made something turn over low in his belly, but all he felt was vague acquaintance and the need to be a little polite.

Stiles buries himself in his blankets and stares blankly at the turned off computer screen in his lap. He’s wearing sweats and still has his hoodie over the top. He knows, theoretically, that the temperature outside is working its way up into the 90s but somehow he’s still cold. And when his window slides open and it's Scott working his way over the sill (still not graceful, despite all those nifty wolf superpowers), he feels nothing more than a muted thud of gratitude that it’s not Derek. His dad is due home soon and explaining Derek away feels like too much work.

Moving feels like too much work.

“Hey, Scott.” Stiles watches Scott pace back and forth, after a mumbled greeting. Obviously Scott has something on his mind, something he’s not sure what to say, because usually he would have jumped straight to the point.

Scott runs his hands through his hair before shooting Stiles an uneasy grin. He sits down gingerly in Stiles’ computer chair. “How’re you?”

“Fine.” Stiles doesn’t feel the need to respond seriously to such a weak ass question. Who asks shit like that if they're under the age of ninety?

“It’s the middle of summer and you’re in blankets.” Scott looks pointedly at Stiles’ nest. “Are you sick, maybe?”

“Maybe.” Stiles wonders if that was what was wrong with him.

“Mom said something about depression. Are you depressed?” Scott is so earnest, so eager to explain away Stiles’ behavior. That makes Stiles want to kick him out. 

“My dad’s home soon. You should go.” Stiles buries himself deeper in his blankets. If one of those girls from earlier had come home with him, he could have screwed her, here. Maybe that would warm him up. But something was still keeping Stiles from giving in to the drunken/easy hook up that would take care of his pesky virginity problem.

Scott shoots him another worried look before clambering out of the window. Stiles waves – he remembers that Scott is supposed to be his best friend – but there’s nothing behind it. No affection. No feeling.

No warmth.

 

Derek takes it upon himself to start following Stiles. He’s not done that before, no matter what Isaac implies with his rolling eyes. And it turns out that Stiles is fairly dull to follow around. Stiles sleeps in late, plays video games, comes out of the house and wanders along to the police station a couple of times during the week Derek spends in his company. Throughout it all, the weather keeps getting warmer and Derek is tempted find the pond in the woods he and Laura used to swim in. Stiles, on the other hand, starts to dress as if he lives in Alaska.

There’s also the way he deals with people. Stiles snaps at the old man who takes too long to go through the door at the gas station, he doesn’t hug his dad when he sees him. Stiles doesn’t return the wave from his neighbor. In fact, if Derek had to put a word on Stiles’ personality transplant, he’d almost say that Stiles was channeling Jackson. Except for the fact Jackson would get angry, would yell and lash out. Stiles is almost too controlled.

It all comes to a head when Derek watches Stiles through the diner window eating with his dad. The Sheriff is on shift, eyes tired and wrinkles deeper than usual, but had taken a break to sit with Stiles and eat. The Sheriff orders a burger and Stiles says nothing. The Sheriff orders pie and Stiles says nothing. The Sheriff steals some of Stiles’ pie and Stiles still says nothing. Derek squirms down in the front seat of his car and tries to ignore the churning in his gut.

 

Stiles hears his phone chime from his desk and ignores it. He’ll get it later. He’s reading. It’s a book Deaton offered him and doesn’t seem to be much in the way of actual useful information. He should be angry at the waste of time it’s being reading but he’s already worked through most of his assigned summer reading. He doesn’t feel anything other than a mild satisfaction that it’s done. He’s got no opinions on whether Moby Dick was awesome or sucked, no opinion on the fact that the title is a whole boat load of enjoyment for the typical teenage boy just waiting to happen.

The phone chimes again. Stiles remembers he used to spend hours on the thing, texting back and forth to Scott even though they’d seen each other all day long. He remembers using his phone for everything – music, translation, stupid photos for Facebook. He snags it and looks at the message. Scott. He opens his image folder. He hasn’t taken a picture since the end of school. Even then, they’d been of some weird markings Stiles had wanted to compare with one of Chris’ books. He flicks back through the photos – all supernatural incident related – until he gets back to March and the picture he’d taken at school just before his dad was taken by Peter.

Had it really been that long?

Stiles shivers. He’s cold again. Colder. He grabs the book and crawls under the duvet again. He’d pulled out the spare one from the back of the laundry closet and he wraps that over him too. It doesn’t help. He starts reading again. He’s going to have to come up with other ways of warming himself.

His phone chimes again and he looks at the message. It’s from Derek. He wants to meet Stiles out in the woods. Stiles taps his fingers on the leather cover of the book for a moment before replying.

 

Derek watches in amazement as Stiles pulls on the cigarette, lips pouting around the filter and the smoke curling in the air around him. He’s taken aback for a moment and it’s a punch to the gut that does it. Stiles isn’t a kid anymore – well, he is, age-wise. But there’s something about the transgressive action, the nonchalance with which Stiles draws the smoke into his lungs and the way he doesn’t seem to care about anything other than the tiny burning ember that makes Derek realize how far away this figure in front of him is from the kid he met in the woods eighteen months ago.

Derek has to fight down the shame he feels when he realizes that half of what he’s feeling right now is sheer lust. He’s tamped down on that, tried to ignore the bolts of attraction he feels. Nothing ever good comes from Derek giving in to his need for other people after all. But what he feels for Stiles is tempered by the fact he knows Stiles. Yeah, it’s maybe not the way Scott knows Stiles, inside and out from years and years of shared history. But they’ve saved each other’s lives, fought together. Helped each other hide. And there’s something more powerful behind the feeling Derek experiences as he watches Stiles take another drag. More powerful that lust.

Derek doesn’t want to put a name to it.

“Should you be doing that?” he asks, as he steps out from behind the tree he was using for cover. Derek’s gratified that Stiles still flails, nearly falls off the hood of his car.

“Why? You gonna tell on me?” Normally Stiles’ voice would be almost irritating in its variation, its need to shoot through a dozen different pitches and tones. But when he speaks, he’s dispassionate. Flat. Derek worries more.

“If I have to.” Stiles holds out the cigarette and Derek shakes his head. “I never liked the taste.”

“So you did try them. Guess they go along with the whole bad boy, leather-jacket wearing, stubble thing you keep trying to get going.” Derek’s running a hand over his cheek before he even realizes what he’s doing. Stiles’ quirks half a grin and its then that Derek understands just how immobile and expressionless Stiles had been. He slides across the distance separating them, hesitates, and then swings himself up to perch beside Stiles. 

Stiles doesn’t react. Stiles just takes another drag.

Derek watches Stiles' fingers curl around the thin stick and he's seized with the sudden urge to take the cigarette and throw it to the ground and replace Stiles' tight grip with his own fingers. He wanted to give Stiles something to hold on to, someone to anchor him.

"Should you be smoking?" Derek asks again, anxious. He doesn't know how Stiles' mom died but he's as capable as anyone of leaping to conclusions and the word cancer is there in his mind.

"I thought they'd warm me up," Stiles says. It's honest. It's a little bitter and a whole lot reluctant, but Stiles is telling the truth. Derek reaches his hand out and presses it against the back of Stiles' neck. He doesn't feel cold. "Inside." Stiles shrugs his shoulder before dropping his cigarette to the ground. The ember burns against the asphalt for a moment, sparks spilling out, before Derek hops down and crushes it under the heel of his boot.

"I can help." Derek is reluctant to offer. He doesn't know how much of a help he will really be. It's not like he has a marvelous track record with making people better.

Stiles looks at him like he can read Derek's mind. “Tell me why you wanted to see me.”

“There’s been another flurry of activity in the woods. It doesn’t feel like an Omega – some strange markings. We want you to ask your dad to have a look and see if there’s anything similar further afield. Track it.” Derek hauls notes out of his back pocket and offers them to Stiles.

Stiles hums. “Dad’s busy. If he’ll let me look at the files, I’ll do it.” He doesn’t sound like he was particularly put out or bothered or enthusiastic. He just sounded practical. Pragmatic. There’s no thrill nor boredom at the idea of research, no mischievous suggestion that Derek help him break into the station and look at the files.

Derek watches Stiles go, his mind trying desperately to put it all together.

 

Stiles knows Derek can hear him coming, so he doesn’t worry about interrupting anything important as he slogs up the steps to Derek’s new apartment. Actually, since he’s lived here longer than anywhere else, Stiles reckons they should probably just start referring to it as Derek’s apartment. He’s been in here a couple of times but always with Scott and always on werewolf business. He supposes he’s technically here on werewolf business still and there’s a moment where something buried inside him chimes with a vague disappointment. It’s quickly gone.

The door’s unlocked and Stiles just pushes in. Normally he’d shrug off his hoodie and fling it over the back of the couch but it’s cold in here and he left normal behind around about sixth grade by his thinking. He wanders around the open space, around the weird curve of the wall to find Derek basking in the sun by one of the huge ceiling to floor windows. Although, that’s not quite what Derek’s doing, if Stiles is honest.

Derek is shirtless and in a pair of what look like soft fleece pants. The pants are probably loose, or they would be, if Derek wasn’t arching his back, stretching his arms over his head and raising one of his legs up in a straight line, causing the supple material to catch on all his muscles like it was painted on. It was more revealing than Derek’s tight jeans and Stiles had spent enough time observing them to know at just which angle to tilt his head to get the best view.

Stiles watches as Derek slowly rolls over, balancing on one hand and foot, and all he can do is trace the curls of the tattoo on his back, following the path of a trickle of sweat across the breadth of Derek’s shoulders. Stiles daren’t look any lower – he’s not sure he could stop looking. There’s a moment when he realizes what he’s doing – unashamedly perving on Derek – and there’s a short burst of something unidentifiable in his chest. It feels warm. A tendril of heat and want and need that he’s hard put to remember the last time he felt.

He wants Derek. And intellectually Stiles knows he’s wanted Derek off and on for most of the last year. He’d even be comfortable with calling his fascination with Derek a crush. But it’s been so long since he actively felt something like this.

Derek finishes the smooth movement, his feet planted firmly apart, his head bowed between his hands. He’s smooth muscle and skin and flexibility and Stiles rubs at his chest when the unexpected heat sparks again.

“Are you done?” he asks Derek, a little afraid of what’s happening too. Derek doesn’t answer but smoothly rolls up to his feet.

Stiles has to cough to loosen the lump in his throat. He fixes his eyes on Derek’s shoulder but the pain is back. He’s hard put not to let his eyes drift across Derek’s softly rising and falling chest. Equally he doesn’t allow himself to trace the angular lines of Derek’s face, the shadow of his beard.

He’s not aware that he’s closed his eyes until he opens them at the brush of Derek’s hand against his shoulder. He can feel the warmth and the pressure even though he’s wearing his now customary double layers of hoodie and shirt and sweater. His breath hitches in his throat all over again and that spike of almost pain becomes more of a generalized fuzz of warmth. Stiles can smell Derek as well, sweat and sweetness all bundled together and he catches himself leaning forward to drink more of it in.

It takes a moment for Stiles to realize Derek was calling his name. He stumbled back a step, breaking contact and all the feeling of warmth and contentment and possibility vanished. He’s cold again.

“Dad says he’s found nothing matching the MO so far but he’ll keep his eyes open,” Stiles says, rubbing at his shoulder where Derek had touched him. The memory of the burst of heat is distracting. He knows it is important but in the end, Stiles tries to get on with whatever Derek wants him for. The idea of Derek and want sends another little spike of heat through him and Stiles stops thinking as much as he can. “He said that you should just have his cell number as well.”

Derek shrugs but pulls his phone off the cluttered counter and passes it to Stiles unlocked. Stiles taps in the Sheriff’s number and wonders why Derek frowns when he takes back the phone, flicking through it. “You didn’t do anything else to my phone.”

Stiles turns to go. He’s delivered his message – face to face as requested by his dad – and he’s got no reason to stay here any longer.

“I’ve got another favor to ask,” Derek says, sounding as if the words are being tortured from him. “Deaton.”

“I’m on break,” Stiles reminds him and waits for Derek to say more. Derek is eyeballing him oddly and takes a few minutes to get to the point. It’s almost like he’s waiting for Stiles to say something else.

“He wants you to do some research. Claims if he does it that too much attention will be paid.” Derek turns away and wanders through the open space of his apartment to a door Stiles had never been through. Nothing more exciting than a large closet from the looks of it though. Derek disappears inside and returns with a couple of books Stiles knows he has wanted to get his hands on for months. Deaton had always told him no but here – finally – he was getting to peek inside and find out what the hell the whole Nemeton was about.

Of course, Stiles’ brain supplies the answer that the Nemeton is probably behind this weird lack of anything he feels, as he takes the books and he knows he should be excited – wildly. He should be yelling and flailing and his words should be tumbling out of his mouth ecstatically. Instead he takes them and just says, “Thanks.” Then he leaves.

 

Derek’s stopped watching Stiles – stalking him. He’s not looking for him so he’s surprised when he pulls into the strip mall on Madison and sees that familiar jeep taking up a space at the far end of the row. Derek’s here for the hardware store, since all the waiting around is driving him a little stir crazy. He knows there’s a creature, a monster out there and he knows it’s targeting innocent people but there’s not much he can do to hunt it during the daylight hours. The obvious solution is home improvement. There’s a room he thinks might be for Cora if she ever comes back to Beacon Hills and he should probably do something with it.

He leaves the store for now and strolls over to the jeep. It’s empty, Stiles in whatever store he’s come here for, and Derek decides to wait. It’s too hot to lean against the car – even though he wouldn’t burn, the heat of the metal would cause his skin to redden and blister just for enough moments that Derek discounts it. He wanders towards the nearest store front, for the shade it casts, to wait.

It’s a gun range. Derek supposes he knew there must be gun ranges here in Beacon Hills. He knows the Sheriff was talking about the department needing to use it while the FBI took over the station last winter. He’s just never been here. There didn’t used to be one here. In fact, this strip mall had been a small wood off the highway when he’d lived in Beacon Hills with his family. There’s an odd relearning that has had to go on for him: new shops, redirected streets, buildings in the place of trees and empty lots where there had been all kinds of things. It was an unfamiliar familiarity.

He catches Stiles’ scent heavier around the door and looks down to see a stubbed out cigarette. Stiles is still smoking and Derek wonders who he’s getting them from. That Danny kid, perhaps. He looked the type. Derek shook his head. There has never been any taint of smoke around Danny, not the few times Derek had seen him. He is just imagining a connection, borne of jealousy. And isn’t that just wonderful? Derek Hale is jealous of a high school kid. Almost as pathetic as being in…lust with a high school kid.

He’s not sure just what to call the level of fucked up he apparently is.

Derek pushes his way inside the gun range before he can really think about it, the muffled thud of gunshots just reaching his hearing as he lets the door bang behind him. There’s a man in a plaid shirt fulfilling every gun nut stereotype behind a raw wood counter flipping through a magazine and he doesn’t even look up. He just points at the poster behind him listing prices. Derek hauls out his wallet and slides a fifty across. He only takes the ear protectors out of the tray, leaving the pistol and ammunition behind. That makes the guy look up.

“I’m here to see a friend,” Derek tells him. “Keep the change.” The guy goes back to flipping pages.

The noise of gunfire rises sharply as Derek opens the door marked “To The Range” and he’s grateful for the muffling effect of the ear protectors. He knows how to shut down the worst of his sensitivity, something the newer wolves – or wolves crazed by the full moon - seem to find much harder, but the noise is still amplified by the bare concrete walls and low ceiling. He sees Stiles immediately and walks along behind the stalls under he reaches the one Stiles is standing easily in. Stiles doesn’t have his weird layers of clothes on and the strength in his arms and the breadth in his shoulders make Derek’s breath catch. Stiles is probably a shade taller than him these days and Derek has a moment he swears is like a premonition of Stiles wrapping those strong arms around him, chest pressed against his back, hooking his chin over Derek’s shoulder. 

Derek coughs, and then realizes Stiles has ear protectors on as well and won’t hear him. He waits until Stiles lowers the gun and presses the button to roll in the target before stepping forward and laying a hand on Stiles’ back to draw his attention. He could probably just move into Stiles’ eye line but there’s a greedy part of him that wants to touch and he's being rewarded for his temerity. Through the thin cotton of Stiles’ t-shirt, Stiles’ skin is smooth and warm and Derek feels guilty for taking pleasure in it. He’s even more guilty when Stiles leans back into him for a moment, shivering and curving towards Derek. Stiles is holding the gun he was using loosely, pointing it at the ground. He knows how to handle the weapon.

“Hey,” Derek says, when Stiles doesn’t say anything. In fact, Stiles’ eyes are kind of glassy. “You okay?”

Stiles just leans in some more, pressing his bare arm against Derek’s. It’s like a shock goes through him when, as Derek doesn’t move, Stiles shakes and drops the gun. It doesn’t go off and Derek hopes it’s empty as it spins by their feet.

“Warm,” Stiles slurs, turning his head and tucking his nose under Derek’s ear, nosing along Derek’s jaw. Derek can feel the warmth of Stiles’ breath against his stubble.

Derek froze as Stiles curls into him, arms no longer just pressing but actively wrapping around him. If Derek has to describe what’s happening, he’s probably going with hug but Stiles is almost burrowing into him, trying to crawl into his skin. Stiles’ eyes are closed and Derek can hear his heartbeat, stronger and clearer somehow. Stiles’ fingertips start to work under his t-shirt, stroke the bare skin above the waistband of his jeans and Derek knows he should stop him, should pull away. But he’s greedy and he’ll take it.

Stiles rubs his lips over Derek’s jaw line, a wet welcome warmth which surprises a sigh from Derek. That’s what makes Stiles jump back.

“I don’t know why I did that,” Stiles tells him, falling to his knees to pick up the gun he’d dropped. Derek notes that Stiles’ heart seems slower and quieter now and that sets him wondering again. The other shooter in the range grunts in their direction and heads out, leaving them alone back here. 

“I saw your jeep. Didn’t know you shot.” Derek tucks his hands into his pockets and leans back. He doesn’t want to scare Stiles any more than he already had. 

“Allison. And Chris, I guess. My dad wasn’t too keen but he sees the value as well.” Derek glances over at the target, noting the neat cluster of bullets in the center. Stiles is good. “I don’t know how I’d do against a live target, with distractions and weather.”

“Show me.” Derek tugs the ear protectors back into place and folds his arms, watching expectantly. Stiles shrugs and grabs a fresh clip, loading it with ease. He hits the button and sends a fresh target to the far end of the range before widening his stance and firing. Derek would expect to hear an uptick as the bullets fired, a fear response or some excitement. But Stiles’ heart and breathing stays steady and calm as he gently squeezes the trigger, sending bursts of three into the target which flutters slightly. Stiles empties the clip. Derek can see that he’s hit the target perfectly.

“I’m done,” Stiles says, placing the gun back into a tray and throwing the ear protectors on top.

“You want to grab some food?” Derek’s not sure what makes him ask. He’s even less sure of what makes him stretch out his arm to drop his own ear protectors into the tray as well, deliberately brushing his arm against Stiles. There’s no other word for it: Stiles melts against him. And that brief touch is enough for Derek to hear Stiles’ heartbeat clearly, without the strange muffling that seems to be ever present. Derek’s mind to start forming a theory, a hypothesis. Something is wrong with Stiles and Derek’s touches seem to break it.

He feels guilty pulling away this time, but he’s got some ideas to take to Deaton now.

 

It’s over a week later – a week in which Derek has fought (three times) and defeated a territorial phooka – when Deaton holds out the piece of tatty paper towards him but Derek hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“You came to me,” Deaton says. He shrugs. He’s distancing himself from the packs – the pack and Derek – all over again. He looks like he would prefer to be anywhere but here.

Derek takes the paper. “What do I need to do?” There’s another moment of hesitation – from Deaton this time. Derek finds his own resolve hardening. He knows that he’d do anything for these kids, and not just them. Their friends and families. He wants this town to be safe and he wants them to be happy.

A fragment of a story his mother had once told him seemed appropriate here. She had been talking about the whole idea of the bite, their whole werewolf nature, as a gift. That had chimed with Derek, even when he cursed his very existence. He’d never wanted to be anything other than a werewolf. He also remembered her talking endlessly about responsibility, acting as a protector for the forest. Derek had laughed – they weren’t exactly fans of the back to nature lifestyle like some of the wolves his mom dealt with. But now he feels he understands what she was trying to tell him a little more. “I’ll do it. Do anything.”

Deaton raises his eyebrows and looks impassive and sage. Derek waits him out. “The core of it isn’t the ritual, isn’t the…physical acts. It’s the intent. You need to have a genuine, real and honest connection.”

Derek nods. He focuses on reading the words that outline a deceptively simple solution to Stiles’ problem. He ignores the way the tips of his ears are burning.

“Scott could probably do it,” Deaton suggests. “Not- Not that extreme. But something. Some variation.”

“But this will work?” Derek grinds the words out. He hates himself because he’s happy that this is the solution. There’s a part of him that wants it and that makes him feel a little sick.

“It should work.” Deaton is as careful as ever. Derek knows there’s no certainty with magic, no certainty with anything he says. Deaton never promises Derek anything. Derek takes his leave, still mulling it over. It isn’t that he’s willing to do anything. It’s more that he’s going to have to give up everything if this goes wrong.

He sits in his car for a moment before pulling out his phone and texting Stiles.

 

Stiles is back in his double layers of hoodies and his lips are pale, almost bloodless. His eyes are dull and his heart is muffled one more. Derek feels his own heart picking up as he thinks that soon this is going to be over.

“Derek.” Stiles leans back against his jeep, expressionless.

“I can fix you,” Derek says, hands loose by his side. “I can help.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Stiles says, eyes dull. He doesn’t even shrug. “It’s just cold.”

“It’s the height of summer.” Derek waves around at the rest of the empty lot. It’s baking, the dirt dry and packed. Derek can feel the sweat dripping down his spine. “It’s not cold,” he says, trying to make Stiles understand.

“I’m cold.” Stiles looks at his feet, his untied laces. “There’s something wrong. I think. I don’t know.”

“It’s-“ Derek doesn’t quite know how to say it. “Your heart is cold.”

“This isn’t a fucking fairy tale.” That spark of anger gives Derek hope. Maybe he can get through this without doing something that both he and Stiles would regret. Anger would work. Some of the research suggested a strong, hot emotion would break through.

“Doesn’t it infuriate you? That I think I know better than you do? It always used to drive you crazy.” Derek presses forward, trying to see if the words land like blows. Stiles raises his eyes to him and they are as empty as before. It takes the fight out of Derek and he's quiet when he asks, “Stiles?”

“It’s almost like… I don’t know you. Or I know you. And I know how I should react to you. And there’s something stopping me.” Stiles rubs at his chest, seemingly without knowing he was doing it. Derek takes a steadying breath and reaches out to catch the hand before Stiles wears a hole in his chest. Stiles is still looking at him and Derek watches as his pupils darken, the honey brown returning to his eyes, warm and liquid. He can hear Stiles’ heart quicken.

“You can stop me, right? At any point.” Derek wants – he wants this so much it’s almost overwhelming – but he has no idea if Stiles wants it at all. He hopes that Stiles won’t hate him afterwards. He can take disdain, dislike, but not out and out loathing.

“Stop you?” Stiles is breathing heavier and his heartbeat is louder and faster and Derek leans in and slots his mouth against Stiles’ slack one. He hadn’t really let himself imagine what kissing Stiles would actually be like. He didn’t dare let his imagination so free, knowing what came of giving in to those sorts of thoughts and desires in the past. Stiles tasted of coffee, of boy, of the gum he’d swallowed earlier. There’s even a faint lingering taint of sour stale smoke.

Stiles doesn’t kiss back, not at first, then he throws his arms around Derek and hauls him close. Now it’s like Derek would want, with Stiles’ mouth open and panting, tongue dipping out to trace the curve of Derek’s bottom lip, teeth clashing when they slam too hard together. Derek can feel something else now – something he’d not been aware of when he’d touched Stiles previously. If he had to put a name to it, he’d call it icy darkness. In some ways it resembled the black lines of pain that he was used to seeing when he tried to help people in pain, tendrils of smoke poisoning his veins. But this had a definite wintry feel. It almost makes Derek stop and pull back. But he’s balancing the discomfort with the feel of Stiles against him.

Stiles is trying to get closer and Derek knows that he’s going to have to move them or someone is going to get done for public indecency. Unfortunately, he realizes he hasn’t quite thought this through properly. They’re in an empty lot in the middle of the day and there are warehouses on either side of them and a road running past and all they’ve got around them is their cars. Derek fumbles them along until he can haul open Stiles’ passenger door and then he lifts Stiles up until Stiles is balanced on the seat. Finally Derek lets his hands free from where he’s clutching at Stiles like he never wants to let go (more truth in that than he’s entirely comfortable admitting) and he starts to work at Stiles’ layers. He doesn’t want to stop kissing so he’s forced to bunch everything up under Stiles’ armpits before he pulls his mouth away and tugs the tangled mess over Stiles’ head. Then he dips back in to reattach his lips before Stiles can do much complaining.

Stiles sounds like he’s trying to say something but it keeps getting lost in the brush of Derek’s hands. He can feel Stiles’ moans against his lips, unwilling to stop kissing to let them slip free at first. Then Derek moves his mouth, biting and licking and mouthing along Stiles’ jaw, down the long elegant stretch of his neck and licking at the sweat gathered at the base of Stiles’ throat.

“Derek,” Stiles whines and Derek gets that Stiles is pulling at his t-shirt, trying to get it off. Derek unsheathes his claws and tears it apart, unwilling to take his mouth away from where he is tasting Stiles’ skin. The sluggish cold from earlier is almost gone and Stiles is beginning to flush red, a blush that stretches from the arch of his cheekbones down past a half dozen moles nearly to Stiles’ nipples. Derek returns his hands to normal and wraps his fingers around Stiles’ hips to hold him steady while he wrapped his lips around a bud, teasing it with his tongue and his teeth. Stiles arches upwards and tries to break free from Derek’s hold just to haul Derek closer with his hands. It makes Derek huff a laugh against Stiles’ skin.

Derek hauls Stiles closer, lining up their cocks. He should shove the material separating them away but the idea of fussing with buttons and zips and belts suddenly feels overwhelming. He’s supposed to be the one in charge, the one in control here, but he’s as swept away by Stiles as Stiles is by whatever reaction he has to Derek. He can’t help the roll of his hips, the way he guides Stiles into the rhythm - not that it takes much persuasion - and he can’t help the way his mouth finds Stiles’ again, harder now. They’re not so much kissing as breathing into each other’s mouth and Derek never wants it to stop. He’s not far from coming when Stiles stiffens in his arms and the hands that had been clutching at his shoulders tighten, fingers digging in. Derek feels Stiles come, hears the cut off stutter of his breath and there’s a wave of pressure that forces him away from Stiles to lie flat on his back in the dust of the dirt.

Derek’s head is throbbing when he sits up, unusually. He feels that odd cold energy still running through him but it’s nowhere near as strong as it was before. He looks up to see Stiles still in the front of the jeep, legs still splayed wide where they’d made space for Derek only moments ago. Stiles’ hair is on end and his mouth is red and used. Even from where he’s sitting, Derek can see the path of stubble burn he’s left on Stiles’ neck and shoulders. There’s even a rapidly darkening stain at his crotch. Stiles looks like he’s been doing exactly what he was doing. 

He also looks confused.

“Stiles?” Derek has to cough to loosen his voice, his throat tight and rasping. “Stiles?”

“I’m here,” Stiles says. He sounds as dazed as he looks. Derek forces himself to his feet and crosses the space between them. He hovers, though, doesn’t touch Stiles again. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.” Derek waits, unsure. He wonders if Deaton’s plan worked at all. There’s definitely something different about Stiles now but it could just be the lingering edges of whatever their make out session had caused. Stiles’ hand shoots out and grabs his arm just as Derek starts to move away. He gets another jolt of that cold, even though it is definitely weaker.

“We need to talk.”

 

Stiles watches Derek look ashamed and guilty and inside of him, he feels a pull in his gut. Derek, for all his faults, isn’t to blame for this. Stiles can see that Derek was trying to help him out and it’s not like he was unwilling participant in this. The daydreams he used to indulge in more often than he was entirely comfortable admitting were nothing compared to the strength, the way Derek felt under his palms, Derek’s fucking mouth, which Stiles can’t help but look at. Derek’s lips are red and swollen and slick and Stiles wonders if his own mouth looks anything similar. He presses two fingers to his mouth and feels the give.

The minute the physical sensation hits, Stiles jerks. It had been like a cloud, a fog, was settling on his thoughts and feelings again. A chill sucking the goodness out of anything. When Stiles slides his hand up Derek’s arm to stoke over his shoulder, cup the back of his neck, he can feel it sliding away like the warmth he feels from Derek melts it. But Stiles knows it isn’t just the physical touch. He thinks it’s the connection he feels with Derek, a connection he wants to put some words to that have everything to do with burning heat.

Love. Lust. Passion. He may feel a little like someone from a romance novel right now (and, he laughs to him himself, Derek looks like the cover of one, what with his torn open shirt barely clinging to his torso) but Stiles guesses it makes sense. He’s had this fucking muffler on whatever makes him feel and it would take something pretty strong to break through it. The strongest of emotions. He guesses it was just as well no one thought to try and make him angry. They wouldn’t like him when he’s angry and all.

Stiles feels the chill start to creep in when he drops his hands and suddenly the solution is obvious. “I think we should probably go back to your apartment.” Stiles nods at Derek’s frown. “We need to keep going.”

 

The apartment looks much the same as the last time Stiles was here, all worn furniture and huge windows. He wonders why Derek likes these wide open places, where anyone could see in. Although it’s not like Stiles doesn’t understand that Derek needs to see what’s coming. And he would get a decent view of the night sky from here too. Okay, maybe he does get why Derek likes these huge ass windows. 

Stiles can feel the cold trying to force its way back in but the more he thinks about Derek the easier it is to keep away. He focuses on the way Derek smelled as he makes his way across the hardwood floor to the unmade bed that is tucked away under where the window starts to slope to meet the roof of the building. Trust Derek to take the top floor – the penthouse – even though the kitchen is tucked behind that weird curved wall.

Stiles starfishes out on the white sheets. He’s too warm in all his layers and he starts to take them off, both hoodies, a shirt. His shoes and socks. Soon he’s just lying there in his t-shirt and boxers, baking in the sun pouring through the windows. It feels glorious.

Derek had sent Stiles ahead of him, claiming he has some calls to make and he didn’t want to get distracted. Stiles’ imagination had provided a whole slew of people who Derek might be calling, from the sensible – Deaton – to the more ridiculous – his dad, to ask for permission to deflower Stiles. Because Stiles was pretty much one hundred percent sure that was where this was going. Anytime he thought about Derek pushing into him, he could feel something tight in his chest slackening, like a fist around his heart peeling its fingers away. And the more he thought about it, the better he felt. The more normal he felt.

Stiles has been through plenty of therapy, enough to know that there's nothing wrong in not thinking or acting the same way as everyone else. That no one was “normal”. But now he's more free from whatever had been affecting him, he can see that he isn’t his usual baseline. He remembers some of the things he’s let slide and scrambles to the edge of the bed to haul his phone out of his jeans. _Dinner plans changed. Vegetarian pasta bake_ he texts to his dad.

Even the pillows smell like Derek, Stiles muses, rubbing his face in one. He thought it would be kinda gross but there’s something sweet and fresh that just means Derek for Stiles now. And almost as if the thought summoned him, Derek is there at the end of the bed, crumpling a plastic bag in his hand.

“Hey,” Stiles says. It comes out less seductive and more dopey, but he doesn’t mind. Derek knows him, wants him just the way he usually is, from everything Stiles managed to work out in between those kisses. Speaking of. “You should get back down here and kiss me some more.”

“Talk.” Derek’s voice is suitably strangled. “Bed.”

“You should touch me, at any rate.” Stiles can feel the cold creeping back faster. “I can feel it coming back.”

“Deaton said. That once would be enough.” Derek throws the bag on the bed and sheds the spare t-shirt he’d pulled from the trunk of his car.

“I think we should-“ Stiles swallows as he feels the cold start at his extremities, his hands and feet seeming to belong to a stranger. “You need to touch me.”

“I can take it all away, Stiles.” Derek launches himself forward. His kissing seems less careful than before and it takes much less time for Stiles to feel the press of Derek’s hard dick against his hip. He was pretty much hard from the first touch this time around.

“Wait,” Stiles gasps, even though it takes all his will power to separate himself from Derek’s mouth. “Are you even gay?”

“It’s…” Derek lets out a noise that sounds exasperated. “I’m in love with you.” It’s bald and blunt and it strikes Stiles like a knife to the heart. 

“Really?” He sounds more shocked than sarcastic, which he has to be grateful for. Sometimes Stiles swears he has no ability to control his mouth.

“Deaton had a solution. But it only works if someone is in love. So I said I’d do it.” Derek hides his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck.

“So you told Deaton before you told me.” Stiles pokes at Derek’s side. “That’s cold, man.”

Derek raises his head and Stiles is taken aback at the softness of the expression on Derek’s face. He knows, theoretically, that Derek is probably capable of expressions other than anger and disdain. He’s even witnessed a smile once or twice. But it is the way Derek looks at him, like he’s the best thing in the world, puppies and kittens and sunshine all bundled into a Stiles’ shaped package. Stiles has to raise his face up and demand a kiss and he’s glad when Derek gives in, teasing for a moment.

It strikes Stiles that this probably isn’t a one-time deal after all.

 

Derek thought his heart would seize when he saw Stiles sprawled out on his sheets like that, nearly naked and comfortable. It's hot in the apartment, the sun magnified by his stupidly huge windows, but Stiles seems to be reacting to it now, clothes tossed aside in tangled piles. It makes Derek’s nerves start up.

Stiles is annoying and demanding and perfect as Derek stretches alongside him, kissing him just as frantically as before. He knows that he’s taken the edge off the spell, off the hold the Nemeton had around Stiles’ heart. But, typically, Deaton's right. It's going to take more than hand jobs in an empty lot to break it completely.

Doesn’t mean that Derek means to reveal as much as he has. But thinking back over it all, to the looks Melissa and Scott and even Stiles’ dad have thrown his way, he ruefully guesses he’s revealed it already. And even if Stiles doesn’t return his feelings, there’s something good in the fact that there’s one less secret in Beacon Hills for him to feel guilty about. And falling over Stiles to kiss him again makes Derek push all that to the back of his mind. Stiles is as eager as he was before but much, much more together. 

“Move over,” Stiles orders, before lining up alongside Derek and hooking his knee up over Derek’s thigh. “I want you to fuck me, and I guess I have to be on my knees for that. So lots of focus on kissing right now, Derek. No more thinking.”

“Yes, sir,” Derek mutters into Stiles’ mouth, already moving to obey. His dick is as hard as it was back in the jeep – harder even. He doesn’t have to worry about anyone interrupting them now. He lets his hands free to cup the curve of Stiles’ ass, hold Stiles close, and he swallows the groan Stiles makes. Stiles’ hands are equally busy, shoving clothes out of the way to trace at the tattoo on Derek’s back, rub over his ass. They’re hummingbird quick and so Stiles-like that it makes Derek groan. He wonders if Stiles would be up for using those clever, long fingers of his on him later.

Stiles shudders in his arms which reminds Derek of what he’s here for. He helps Stiles shimmy out of his boxers, strips efficiently and refusing to tease. Stiles still watches him like he’s on a podium dancing around a pole as he kicks off his boxers. Stiles keeps looking over his shoulder as he rolls over and spreads his legs wide.

That makes Derek stop and press his hand to his cock, trying to calm himself down. He focuses on the sluggish feel of the cold that still swirls through him, the cold he’s taking from Stiles. He’s glad to. He’s happy his werewolf healing – or perhaps the fact the Nemeton already destroyed his life – stops it from grabbing hold and settling in like it did with Stiles. Instead he focuses on getting his hands on Stiles’ ass and spreading it until he can duck down and lick across Stiles’ rim. Stiles wasn’t expecting that – he lets out something that makes Derek glad he hasn’t got any neighbors and huffs a breath across the most sensitive part of Stiles.

Derek licks again, sloppy and wet, feeling Stiles relax under him. Stiles has moved from pre-vocal shock to something that sounds more like enthusiastic encouragement, for all the words keep getting lost in the sheet, the pillows, Stiles’ hands. Derek wickedly rubs his cheek along the curve of Stiles’ ass, making Stiles kick out with one foot and nearly lose his balance.

“Derek! Fuck!” Stiles glares over his shoulder, the effect diminished by the high flush on Stiles’ cheeks and his wide blown pupils. Derek nips at Stiles’ ass, not breaking eye contact, and it makes him all kinds of smug to see Stiles’ mouth go slack.

Derek stops then. This isn’t sex for fun, for pleasure. He has to fuck Stiles to break the spell. Laying it out like that makes Derek grimace. This should be fun for Stiles. This should be with someone Stiles loves: even though Derek said he loved him, Stiles never gave any indication he felt the same way. This is another one of those impossible Beacon Hills quandaries that Derek is never going to be free of.

He fumbles in the bag for a moment to pull out the lube and condoms. He’d dropped past the drugstore, dealt with the accusing gaze from the cashier by frowning and now all he had to do was open the slippery packaging. Maybe it was some form of impulse control that the plastic was so difficult to unwrap. Stiles doesn’t offer to help, watching with hooded eyes as Derek slices open the packaging with a claw and spills some of the liquid onto his fingers. He hesitates, wondering if he should ask for permission, before Stiles merely widens his knees and tips his ass up. 

Derek has to shuffle awkwardly to get close again, but Stiles meets him halfway, dragging the sheets and pillows down in his eagerness, leaving a corner of the mattress bare. Derek’s patience is almost at an end but he takes his time opening Stiles up, one finger working up to two and three until Stiles is a hot, sweaty, pleading mess. Getting the condom on takes only moments and then he’s lining up, biting his bottom lip to give himself enough control not to either thrust all the way in too quickly or to let out the ridiculous soppy things he wants to say, that start with ‘I love you’ and end with ‘forever’.

 

Derek’s… okay, Derek’s dick is Stiles’ new god. It’s hard to describe why being full and held tight and stretched around that perfect length is quite as amazing as it is, but Stiles is going to set up shrines. Maybe even compose a few hymns. He could do that. Stiles is perfectly content that the first thing bigger than a couple of his fingers going up there is Derek’s dick and he wonders if anything else will ever compare.

Stiles is more worried about lasting long enough to enjoy it properly than anything else. He feels like he’s been on the edge of orgasm ever since Derek _fucking honest to god_ rimmed him. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate that (again) then stops because the memory is driving him closer to coming than he really wants.

Derek is murmuring things into the skin of his shoulder, bent over and grinding his hips in a way Stiles has never seen in porn. And he’s watched a lot of porn. And none of the guys in porn come even close to being like Derek. It’s too much – the pressure of Derek’s dick _right_ there, the way his mouth feels against Stiles’ skin. Stiles comes, Derek follows him and then everything shatters.

Derek holds him to the bed, body hot against him as Stiles shakes and shakes. He’s unable to think, unable to comprehend what’s going on. It’s as if everything that he’d been feeling, all the anger and happiness and jealousy and love that had been tamped down inside him suddenly overtakes him. It's so much that Stiles is fairly sure he blacks out. He only seems to fit back into his skin when Derek gently wipes at him with a flannel.

“It worked?” Derek’s eyebrows are back to being the Great Wall, his face impassive and closed down. Derek had hauled on a pair of those soft, clinging yoga pants but isn’t wearing anything else and Stiles wants to touch. He can’t really cope with how it makes him feel. He used to joke about being overwhelmed and, not to put too fine a point on it, he knows what panic attacks felt like and he had spent many a year dealing with them. This is different. It’s like he’s lost the ability to control the strength of his reaction, maybe like when he’d been a kid and everything was extra vivid and bright.

“Well, I’m definitely feeling lots of feelings.” Stiles tries to joke his way out of it but he can tell Derek isn’t really buying it. The sadness he feels when Derek walks away causes him to cry out and he’s gratified when Derek turns around. “Um. Lots of feelings about you, I guess.” Stiles knows he’s blushing. He has every right to be. He’s lying naked in the guy’s bed, he’s just begged for his cock and if it all turns out it was a big trick to break whatever curse was clamped around his heart, Stiles is sure this all isn’t going to work out okay.

In summation, he doesn’t want his heart to be fixed just to be broken.

Derek pauses. It’s not like Derek to pause. Derek either runs away or runs towards danger and stupid plans, but he does not hesitate like this. Stiles watches as Derek swallows, opens his mouth and just stands there. Stiles is swept by another overwhelming rush of affection and a fair bit of lust and worry. It’s so strong it takes his breath away and then he feels Derek’s hands soft on his face.

“Breathe, Stiles.” Derek brushes his lips across Stiles’ cheek, rests their temples together. Stiles lets the gentle caress – and there’s a mind fuck for him. Derek. Gentle. Caress – soothe him, tries to will his mind back to some kind of equilibrium. “I have lots of feelings too.”

Stiles laughs at that. “Like loathing. Hatred. Annoyance.”

Derek pulls back to look at him for a long, long moment before pressing his mouth to Stiles’ lips in a kiss that is anything other than annoying. It’s sweet and gentle. 

“Actions speak louder than words,” Stiles mutters when Derek finally stops. Then, embarrassingly, he yawns into Derek’s face.

Derek tugs the sheet up – a light one, cool against Stiles’ hot skin – and lays down beside Stiles, punching the pillows back into pillow shape rather than the weird sculptures Stiles had made of them in the whole heights of passion thing they’d had going on. It’s still warm, under the window, the sun beating in. He’s also very naked. But Derek’s hand rubbing up and down his side and the way Derek keeps brushing the odd kiss into his shoulder makes him relax and sleep.

 

Stiles laughs when his dad suggests they play baseball on his next day off. It’s still hot as balls, with everyone retreating indoors as often as they can, to the sanctuary of air con and refrigerated liquids. 

“That’s vampires, Dad. Not werewolves.” Stiles has to catch his cereal before it spills over him, but he successfully flings his head back over the arm of the sofa to watch his dad in the kitchen. 

“I like baseball.” His dad peers at him, before shaking his head. “Sports with werewolves. That has disaster written all over it.”

“Hey. I play lacrosse with werewolves all the time, you know.” Stiles decides he’s killed the cereal – all that’s left is sugary milk – and downs it, before extricating himself from the comfort of the couch and coming through to dump his dish in the sink.

He’s struck by the soft smile his dad is wearing as he turns over another page of the paper. They’d both had a slow start this morning, watching a long movie last night. Stiles rubs his chest as the wave of protectiveness and affection and respect and everything he ever associated with his dad sweeps through him. It should be overwhelming. It almost is.

Stiles leans in for a one arm hug, dropping his head down to rest on top of his dad’s. “I like the idea of baseball. I’ll send out a text.”

“Invite Derek,” his dad says, as Stiles is heading out of the door. He knows that the whole body flinch he gives is confirmation of whatever suspicion his dad had. “I can ask him about all those hickeys you’re failing to hide.”

Stiles nods mechanically before tripping over the first step of the stairs. Then he nods again, after regaining his balance, more thoughtfully. Something right settles inside him, around his heart. "You're not getting garlic fries though," he yells back at his dad as he pounds up the stairs to get ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm on tumblr as [dedougal](http://dedougal.tumblr.com/) and you should also follow [DazedRose](dazedrose.tumblr.com/). She posts many many pics of attractive gentlemen. Exquisite taste.


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